Hollywood Black, Crooked Shepherd EP

I’ve got to be honest, here — much as I wanted to, I just didn’t like Hollywood Black’s debut, Two Thousand Years Of Progress, all that much. It had the right parts in most of the right places, sure, but taken as a whole it felt petulant and immature, with lyrics that got so self-righteous and “Christian” that they made the band seem childish for spouting ’em. The music itself was a decent, if not spectacular, brand of punkish indie-rock, but by the time the album finished, all I could do was shrug.

Not so this time around. If Progress was immature and callow, Crooked Shepherd is confident, savagely raw, and self-assured all at the same time. Where the first album was a water balloon, this one’s the aural equivalent of a Molotov cocktail. The crowning moment of the EP comes real early with the lead-off title track, which rides a menacingly deliberate, head nod-inducing, almost Silkworm-esque guitar drone grimly throughout to great effect. The track comes off like Sebadoh’s more-focused moments…only, when the distorted guitars kick in, they come in raw and huge, like somebody doused Lou Barlow’s amps with gasoline and set them ablaze. And holy crap are they badass.

Of course, then there’s the lyrics. Where Progress was a rallying cry at points for Christians to fight the good fight (whatever the heck that fight might be, I dunno), Crooked Shepherd, as its title indicates, takes aim squarely at the Church itself. Specifically, at the crooked-as-hell bastards who seem to run the show, the multibillion-dollar megachurches that’ve become commercial empires unto themselves, and the gullible fools who nod and smile to hear that God wants them to be successful and rich and pretty; one line in particular stands out for that last group: “My check account is full / That’s how I know I’m right with God.” The song’s ferocious and bitter and totally, totally compelling.

“Memoirs Of A Televangelist” takes nearly the same tack as the previous song, blasting TV preachers who play the role on the small screen but don’t actually live it in their real lives; it’s less fiery, but the message and energy are still there in force. Ditto for “Old Grey Mare,” which takes the fight to our wonderful do-anything-for-a-vote politicians and beats ’em down with snarling post-punk guitars.

“Revolution” makes a bit of a sidestep, with Hollywood Black heading off into Strike Anywhere territory on a fist-pumping agit-punk tangent. It works nicely, too, although it’s not entirely clear which revolution the band’s claiming to be children of — and that’s kind of where I trip over middle track “For The Sake Of The Elect,” too. It’s a bit of an oddball here, being almost roots-rock with a Western twang to the distorted guitars and a windswept, rural feel to it, but the lyrics are what leave me confused. I may not be catching the sarcasm, but the parts I can grasp sound like the inner musings of some compound-dwelling, anti-guvmint yahoo out in the backwoods who thinks the Founding Fathers started the NRA right after they dumped all that tea into Boston Harbor.

So, is this the band talking, or some kind of character they’re using to make a point? Got me. But this is one of those moments where I have to paraphrase Voltaire (or Evelyn Beatrice Hall, whichever) and declare that while I disagree pretty much completely with what you’re singing, I’ll defend to the death your right to sing it. Especially if, um, you fucking rock.